


Sounds of Someday

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Canon, disaster humans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28574094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: “Listen, kid,” Dean growled, “I don’t give a fuck who you and your daddy are, but if you fuck with us, I’m gonna kill you, got it?”This wasn’t posturing. Wasn’t the kind of traded insult-threat that Clint was used to, that Clint tossed out more often than a hello to most people.This was a promise. This was a rule.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Dean Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 92
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	Sounds of Someday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/gifts).



> Flowerparrish wanted some Clint Barton and Dean Winchester, pre-canon, meeting and... all the disaster that will entail lol.  
> So much thanks for your patience and support and generosity.
> 
> Thanks always to Ro for the support and editing and friendship. I am so damn lucky.

_ 2002 _

Clint had never been in a dive bar before.

He’d never… actually been in a bar before.

It was a weird realization to have.

It was…

Clint didn’t have a lot of firsts left. At least, he hadn’t thought he had. 

Growing up the way he had - Dad a mess, Mom a mess, Barney trying to keep the mess at bay until Mom and Dad died and Clint and Barney ended up in a group home. Six months later, they were on their own, running away and stealing and hitching their way across the country until they found the circus. Until the Swordsman and Trick Shot took an interest in them and the world tilted all over again. Then, Clint had gotten dumb, had thought things like the  _ truth _ and  _ right and wrong _ mattered, and one thing led to another led to Clint being left for dead and his brother and Trick Shot doing the leaving. 

None of that really left a lot of room for  _ firsts _ anymore. 

But here he was, walking into his first dive bar.

That he was with Coulson, that both he and Coulson were in jeans and  _ flannel shirts _ and t-shirts was… a whole new level of surreal to add to the realization that Clint had no fucking clue what to do.

As someone who had spent his entire life up to that point, all twenty damn years of it, disappearing or blending into a crowd, it made his skin crawl when they walked in and earned the attention of more than half of the bar.

It wasn’t the clothes.

As much as Clint couldn’t wrap his head around the idea - much less the actual sight, the physical evidence - of Coulson in jeans and flannel and a well-washed Aerosmith t-shirt and biker boots - Coulson looked at ease in the clothes. As comfortable in them as if they were one of his immaculate suits. And Clint, well, Clint had worn everything and nothing in his life.

It wasn’t the clothes. 

It wasn’t Coulson’s standard neutral face either. The face that said  _ this is boring, life is boring, and I promise you, you don’t want to make it interesting for me _ neutral face. That same face usually meant Clint was one step away from getting his ass handed to him - whether literally, in the gym, or metaphorically, with a stack of paperwork.

As intimidating as that face was, it wasn’t, actually, all that different from the expressions of most of the bar patrons.

It was Clint.

Clint, whose clothes didn’t look out of place, whose slouch was practiced and designed to make his lanky frame shorter and less intimidating, but none of that did anything to hide his face.

He was twenty, and he looked it. Stick straight, wheat pale blond hair. Pale white skin and pale blue eyes and not even a decent amount of stubble to roughen up his jaw.

Clint had had his looks described to him enough, over the years, to know exactly what he looked like.

And what he looked like was the kind of guy who drew attention from bearded older guys who would probably sneer at the accusation they found his face appealing but nonetheless looked at him, and it wasn’t with Coulson’s neutral face.

He forced himself to stay relaxed, to not reach for any of the knives or guns he had, let himself commit a fraction of his attention to walking through the mental steps of fletching an arrow. His go-to  _ stop fucking freaking out _ exercise.

Coulson was at his shoulder, shorter by a full head but no less intimidating for all of that, and Clint didn’t have to look to know his neutral expression had shifted into the  _ well, now you’ve got my attention _ expression, and that - that made more than a few of the bearded toughs turn back to their drinks and conversations.

One guy, though, one bearded guy with a leather jacket, a trio of empty shot glasses, an empty pitcher and a half-empty pilsner glass on his rickety little table, he didn’t turn away.

He smirked.

It was an  _ oh babe, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet _ kind of smirk, in response to Coulson’s expression, and it made the hackles rise all over Clint. He’d never been sure, never actually given a fuck, what or where hackles were - but he knew he had them, and he knew they rose at every damn threat.

And this guy, this guy was a threat.

Coulson walked right up to the guy, right up to his sad, empty little table, and looked down at him.

Clint followed, as he always did, as he always would. Right into hell itself, though metaphorically. Clint was pretty sure Coulson had already dragged Clint  _ out _ of hell more than once. 

They weren’t the only ones to join the smirking man at his table.

Another guy materialized, slid right up behind the man’s shoulder out of the crowd at the bar so casually that it took Clint a moment to convince himself that the guy hadn’t actually been there all along.

The move was smooth as hell, his positioning making it clear he was there to back up the seated man, but definitely not close enough to get in his way.

Clint was impressed. Which also meant he was, once again, dealing with that whole threat/rising hackles thing.

Until he took a close look at the guy’s face - and fuck, was he glad he looked over the rest of him first, took in the way he stood and took note of the fact that there had to be a weapon at the small of his back, another in each of his brown leather jacket’s external pockets and probably one in an inside pocket as well and- and by the time he took in all of that, took in the metal amulet around his neck and the  _ flannel _ shirt under his jacket and threadbare black shirt under that - and by then, Clint was looking at his face.

Freckles, was his first and goddamn ridiculous thought. 

It wasn’t like the dive bar had great lighting, wasn’t like the industrial fluorescents of SHIELD HQ or a med bay - the two places Clint spent the most time outside of the gym and his shitty one-room apartment in DC. But the lighting was bright enough, warm enough, to highlight all those damn freckles.

Stubble too, along the guy’s jaw, light enough in color - something that couldn’t decide between blond and ginger and brown - that maybe some of the freckles were stubble and maybe some of the stubble were freckles. 

He had a mouth that was asking for a fist to his face, lips too pretty and full and curved way too smugly into a smirk that - yeah, definitely modeled after the guy seated before him.

His face was all clean, straight lines - except for the stubble and the freckles and the smirk. Even his hair, gelled and mussed, recovering from a high and tight, was all straight lines, even though some strands were long enough that they could have curled, could have fallen over his face. 

Clint couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but he could tell they were light, bright, and full of  _ go fuck yourself _ .

He had to force himself to relax, had to do one of Coulson’s damn breathing exercises just to be able to stand there in silence and not launch himself across the table, because this guy - this guy who couldn’t be much older than Clint, who was almost Clint’s height and definitely had weight and muscle on Clint - this guy was the kind of trouble that left Clint broken and bleeding and dying, and for once in his damn life, Clint wasn’t going to just let it happen.

“Boys,” the seated man drawled, voice gravel amusement that matched his smirk, “why don’t you two go play pool and let the grownups talk.”

His words had both Clint and the other guy, Freckles, tensing up. Clint would smirk himself, when Freckles lost his, but Coulson put a hand on Clint’s shoulder.

“Good idea. Clint, no fighting.”

Yeah. That killed any desire Clint had to smirk.

Freckles’ full lips twitched, and Clint kind of wondered… did it count as fighting if Clint got in a good enough hit to knock the guy out cold?

“Dean, go easy on the kid,” was the other man’s instructions to Freckles.

Glaring at each other, Clint and Freckles -  _ Dean _ \- stepped around the table and matched pace to each other as they walked to the pool table.

At least, Clint consoled himself as he stopped by the far end of the pool table and looked back to see Coulson take the empty seat across from the smirking man, the pool table had great sight lines, and Coulson’s back was to Clint instead of the entrance to the bar.

Dean sidled up to Clint, close enough for Clint to smell him - gun oil and cigarettes and… blood?

Clint re-evaluated Dean, the way he stood and walked, decided Dean wasn’t favoring his left because of a weapon but instead because of an injury.

And he smirked.

“Someone stab you in the ass?” he asked Dean.

His guess was right, or close enough, that Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“Listen, kid,” Dean growled, “I don’t give a fuck who you and your  _ daddy _ are, but if you fuck with us, I’m gonna kill you, got it?”

This wasn’t posturing. Wasn’t the kind of traded insult-threat that Clint was used to, that Clint tossed out more often than a  _ hello _ to most people.

This was a promise. This was a rule.

Dean wasn’t intimidating Clint - not trying to, at least - he was just telling him how it was.

Clint lifted his eyebrows, fought back every single smart-ass impulse in his body - and there were a metric fuckton, even after Coulson’s success at getting rid of roughly half of them - and refrained from doing anything but nodding.

“You gonna rack ‘em?” he asked.

Dean studied him, eyes hard - and this close, Clint could see that they were green - for a long, tense moment.

“Sure, kid. You wanna bet on this or what?”

Before Clint’s eyes, Dean transformed. All those hard edges to his voice and body melted away and his smirk became more tease than threat. It kind of took Clint’s breath away, how Dean went from  _ you know you want to punch me _ to  _ you know you want to kiss me _ with just a breath.

Holy fuck.

Then again, this might be Clint’s first bar, his first dive bar, but this wasn’t his first time confronted with a guy like Dean. 

He grinned right back at him, gave him the expression that, without fail, had the pricks of STRIKE Team Alpha stepping up to Clint and threatening to kick his ass every time. It was the grin he’d used back in the circus, to draw in the rubes, the townies, to convince them to buy tickets to get their palms read while Clint leaned close enough to pick their pockets. The grin that said  _ c’mon, you know you wanna _ .

“Bring it.”

-o-

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Never fear, there IS more. Gotta earn that E rating my friends and foes.


End file.
